


Much Ado About Something or Other

by Anonymous



Series: Meet Ugly Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Existential Dread, First Kiss, Fluff, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Influencer Culture, Insomnia, Mild Instances of Fate and Meta BS, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant talk, Recreational Drug Use, Suggestive language, Time Line Memories, Tumblr Prompt, meet ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23676544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When fate keeps drawing you together, your choice is to fight it with everything you've got, or decide to get as stupid as you possibly can.Prompted from my tumblr for my meet ugly prompts: "I'm an insomniac who calls my best friend at 3am except I misdial and I tell you all about my nightmare before letting you talk and now I'm mortified because you never hung up." Something like that.
Relationships: Marvus Xoloto/MSPA Reader, Marvus Xoloto/Reader, Polypa Goezee/MSPA Reader, Polypa Goezee/Reader
Series: Meet Ugly Prompt Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1631182
Comments: 8
Kudos: 98
Collections: Anonymous





	Much Ado About Something or Other

You’re awake.

What you want to do is pace around your hive. To scream and shout with your pent up frustration. To rush up to every single troll on Alternia. To ask them how the hell they deal with this: nightmares, relationships, the horrors of the waking world.

What you end up doing is hovering your finger over the call button. Her name is backlit by four hundred and forty pixels per inch, the same as the rest of the words ( _moirail_ ) and punctuation ( _question mark_ ) and images ( _of her, with her arm around you_ ). Yet her name carries a weight that these don't have. 

_Polypa_. When you first met her, she drew you into her scheme with no pause for interruption. You followed her, and she followed her procedure. 

So calling her at the troll equivalent of "you should be sleeping" o'clock isn't necessarily out of order. She keeps a shifting schedule out of necessity. You keep a shifting schedule because you can't fucking sleep. She'll answer because that's what she always does. And you'll pace around and talk out loud because that's what you always do.

Even so, your heart is in your chest as you hear the shifting sounds on the speaker as your call is accepted.

You talk aloud for a few minutes, then you stop to see if she needs to hang up. The expectant silence on the other line tells you that she's there to listen to you but too tired for further comment. Good. That suits you. 

In some distant third person, you recognize that your susceptibility to hold tenuous half-conversations says a lot about you, and your relationship with her by proxy. This habitual rhythm is almost instinct for both of you: you talk. You are a little rude. You explain yourself. She listens. She offers exactly the right word where it's needed. You end the call and rest.

But you never sleep.

On her end, Polypa's pulling out all the stops. In the background, you can hear a chair creak with her shifting weight. Papers rustle. There's a rhythmic tapping, steady in a way to suggest neither impatience nor boredom. Oh yeah, this is really activating your ASMR. Context clues: she must be finishing up some paperwork. Polypa hates nothing more than doing things through the proper channels. Her independence is as much her strength as it is her weakness. But she hates to get skimped over a technicality even more than she hates bureaucracy.

The world whirls and spins around you; it hits you that you're pacing faster than your mind can keep up with. Voices of your many friends wind in and out of your brain: _breathe. Relax. Calm down and get the fuck over it._ Once you relax enough to stop pacing, you sit cross-legged on what you charitably call a balcony and your friends realistically call a death-trap. The night sky opens up above you. Waxing twin moons cast pink and green across the landscape like a study in baroque. Without the oppressive, claustrophobic feeling of being stuck inside with the memories of your nightmares, you relax enough to realize that your mouth has carried on without you.

Words keep tumbling out, each idea more vague and twisted than the last. At least it’s easier to untangle your thoughts when you know where they’re knotted. You talk about the stress in your life, your guilt over time-management. The number of friends you keep is more than a full-time job at this point.

Still, you know there’s one big issue you’re circling around.

“I had this nightmare,” you start, savoring the words in your mouth. Better to spit the poison out instead of swallowing it down and letting it kill you over time, isn’t it? 

“I was stuck to the floor and I couldn’t look anywhere but up.” Even so, the words are as rough and difficult to handle coming out as they were tucked secretly away. A sense of foreboding blankets you like a sheet of static; little bits and pieces of your world fit together and flit apart, seemingly at random. Your nightmare feels inevitable, somehow. Like there’s a tangible weight in the world as you shape the words that formed your henceforth invisible horror.

You really need to just get the damn words out and try to sleep.

“These bright lights flashed on, one after the other. My eyes were burning the whole time, but I couldn’t look away. One by one, they dropped from the scaffold. But I was looking up for so long that my body stretched up all the way to the scaffolding.”

You pause, grasping for the rest of what happened. On the other line, Polypa’s gone silent again. Immediately, you miss the background noise. Then she draws in a breath and you can barely breathe for the anticipation of her voice.

“Yoo that’s wild!” says someone who is very obviously not Polypa. His voice is a rich tenor, so insincere that it loops around to sound shockingly sincere.

What’s really wild is how quickly you break the world record for "fastest hang-up."

Who the hell was that? You go into your recent contacts and your heart stops. It’s not a single-digit typo or a misplacement of your fingers. The number you called was completely unique.

Maybe it’s because you’re exhausted, or maybe it’s because you’re feeling guilty for making some dude listen to you ramble for (you check the call time... Jesus christ) nearly forty-five minutes about your insomnia. Nevertheless, you send him a quick text.

Unknown  
  
**MSPAR:** Thank you for listening.   
  


It's only polite.

* * *

The first time he texts you back is while you’re negotiating your time between six other trolls.

Unknown  
  
**Unknown:** :o)  
  


For the most part, you can ignore it as you deal with the frustration of navigating quadrants and responding to texts and soothing hurt feelings. For such a violent society, trolls sure are needy!

Unknown  
  
**Unknown:** hey  
  
**Unknown:** yo troll herodotus  
  


Herodotus?

Unknown  
  
**Unknown:** tbh fam i hate to b left on read LOL  
  


Speaking of needy…

Unknown  
  
**Unknown:** jw if u had more righteous fxxkin prophecy to drop hehe ;oP  
  


What the hell is this dude talking about? All thoughts of your friends scatter as you finally have something new to focus on. True mysteries are hard to come by when all of your friends are dating (or pretending not to date) each other. It’s fair to say you’re tempted.

Unknown  
  
**MSPAR:** What the hell are you talking about?  
  
**MSPAR:** Who is this?  
  
**Unknown:** aww u ain’t recognize the voice?  
  
**MSPAR:** This is a text-based conversation.  
  
**Unknown:** u really wildin LOL !!   
  


Oh. This guy again.

Unknown  
  
**Unknown:** name’s Marvus  
  
**Unknown:** fr tho slam dunk that special science on a brother b !!!  
  


You scroll up through the conversation, hoping to find some sort of clue to figure out what this guy’s talking about.

Marvus  
  
**MSPAR:** Prophecy?  
  
**MSPAR:** You mean that dream I had about the lights?  
  
**Marvus:** hellz yeah cuz !!   
  
**Marvus:** thot it wuz wicked sus how u said that shizz rite when i wuz setting up my setlist   
  
**Marvus:** sent my guys to check it the fxxk out  
  
**Marvus:** & they all got cru$$$hed under da lights :o(   
  
**Marvus:** splashed and fxxkin splattered like u ain’t never seen !!!  
  


Setlist?

Marvus  
  
**MSPAR:** So you’re a musician?  
  
**Marvus:** thot i already gave u my creds booboo :o?  
  
**MSPAR:** You gave me your name.  
  
**Marvus:** ya  
  


He types like an asshole. He can’t be bothered to check out his own stage. He takes your dreams as prophecy. Conclusion: religious Soundcloud rapper trying to make it big. Despite yourself, you ignore your other notifications (Tagora is bitching about his kismesis; Charun is sending you obscure words while you send them back colors in response; Lynera is asking how to set up something that sounds suspiciously like a Wii) in favor of awaiting Marvus’s next text.

Marvus  
  
**Marvus:** cant help but notice u seemed a lil stressed my man  
  


Damn it. You were hoping it wasn’t that obvious.

Marvus  
  
**MSPAR:** You could say I have too many friends.  
  
**Marvus:** dam   
  
**Marvus:** well i ain’t trying to b ya buddy tho  
  
**MSPAR:** Thank fuck.   
  
**MSPAR:** I’ve been waiting for someone to use me for my apparently partially prophetic nightmares.  
  
**Marvus:** hehe   
  
**Marvus:** welllllll hmu if u got n e more nite terrors   
  
**Marvus:** & mayb ill use u a lil more ;o)  
  


You press the phone against your chest, smiling despite yourself.

He never texts you again.

* * *

Sitting half-naked in front of a bunch of trolls is, perhaps, not the smartest thing you’ve done on Alternia.

You glance over to Remele; she’s staring intently at her canvas, hand beneath her chin as she considers her work. You look over to Chahut a few seats away and she gives you a lazy smile and a thumbs up. 

Was it naive to think that Remele was inviting you to her figure drawing class as an artist? 

You recline further onto your hand, eyes cast skyward again. You hear a few trolls scratch their charcoal faster on the page as they see shapes and shadows in you that inspire them. The silk sheet that half covers your body shifts slightly against your skin. It’s not that you aren’t used to being fascinating to trolls; most of the time, you feel like an outsider on Alternia. Trolls’ stares barely faze you anymore. This is something different, somehow. To be seen as foreign and beautiful and inspiring? How could you not get addicted to that?

That being said, the vulnerability is not your favorite. 

Thankfully, the class is over before you know it. Trolls group together in clusters of three or four, a few glancing furtively back at you as their imperialist brains take over their artist brains. You wrap your silk sheet more snugly around you and stride out, back towards the dressing rooms. Remele dominates the conversation in the center without a glance back at you. 

You want to take offense, but a part of you knew how this would go.

As if to make up for your other friend’s rudeness, Chahut follows lazily behind you. You hate to admit it, but you do feel safer with her glaring at any troll who dares to get too close to you.

“Do that often?” She asks once she catches up with you.

“What? Get naked in front of a dozen other people?” You glance up to her. Her face is blank, a parody of amicable. “More often than you might think.”

She laughs lowly before whacking you on the back with her big hand. You stumble forward and another set of laughter joins her. A riotous, whimsical tenor…

Your head whips around as you recognize the voice.

By a row of the most blatantly religious paintings stands a man, slightly shorter than Chahut, with a thick mane of hair and mismatched horns. His painted face tells you he’s a clown and his measured steps towards you tell you he recognizes your voice just as you’d recognized his. He’s coming straight toward you.

Chahut noticeably stiffens, adopting her pose you privately call “preacher on bath salts.” Her hand is a grounding weight on your shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Is he dangerous? I think we can take him,” you tease her, and she graces you with a small smile.

“Not dangerous, little one, just stupid.” Ah. Well, you believe that. On cue, he raises his arms in greeting.

“Ayy big sister!” They clasp hands and fist bump. Familiarity makes itself known through the tense lines of Chahut’s posture- obviously this guy’s a piece of work- and through Marvus’s almost too-casual smile.

God, you hope they aren’t expecting you to auspitize. 

“Never knew you came here for inspiration,” Chahut smiles down at him with all of the heat of the Alternian sun. You’re not even in her line of sight and still, you’re withering. “Looking at the nude paintings? Or are the strokes what strike your fancy?” 

He tilts his head and shrugs his shoulder like, oh, she got him. 

“Got some wicked business with your bud,” he says, finally glancing at you. “Messiahs keep drawing us together.”

At his words, Chahut’s hand holds you firmer down. You always knew that something deep down and undeniable in her sees you as her personal, one-way ticket to paradise. And, deep down, you know that she does have real feelings of friendship towards you. 

But knowing and feeling are two different things. And right now you feel a little bristly around the edges. One of your friends left you behind to play artist, and now another is getting clingy with you over reasons you barely believe in. You’re stressed out and exhausted and probably not thinking clearly.

And so that's why you pull away from her grip. 

“It’s fine,” you tell her. “He’s right.”

Marvus lifts an eyebrow (you think? His eyebrows are painted in place), leaning back on his heels in apparent surprise.

“See ya, Stay-mad,” he calls to her as he leads you away. She chuckles darkly over his butchering of her caste name. Briefly, you wonder at the history between the two of them. “Ain’t gotta take it personal, buddy.” He leans in towards you, abesently fixing your sheet to simultaneously cover you up some more and also to suit you to his personal aesthetics. Not gonna lie, he’s got an eye for design. Your sheet is looking couture by the time he’s done. 

“What do you mean? I’m not taking it personally,” you say, in your ‘I’m absolutely taking it personally’ tone. 

“Chahut’s only got one real love in her life,” he leads you through a gallery of religious paintings. He gestures to the largest one in the room: a painting of a two-headed troll, red spirals on the cheeks of one head and green on the other. Their heads are connected by a halo of their horns. “Our messiahs.” 

“It’s... weird to see you,” you tell him, if only because honesty is your default when you have no idea what to say. “You never texted me back.”

“Buddy, _you_ ain’t texted _me_ back.” If he’s hurt or otherwise feels some way about this, he doesn’t let on. “You said it yourself- you ain’t out here looking for friends. S’pose I thought you was done having dreams.”

You sit on the bench in front of the gristly painting of his messiahs. He remains standing, hand tucked thoughtfully under his chin as a complicated expression twists his features.

“I dunno,” you start. He tilts slightly towards you, only evident because the enormous mass of his hair moves with him. “Pretty friendly gesture to get me out of an uncomfortable situation.”

“Nah,” he says, turning towards you with a mischievous smile. “I saved my own ass. Last thing I need is fucking piety right now. Gotchu along for the ride.” His wink, like his voice, only barely attempts at genuine. 

“Why?”

“Thought it’d be funny,” he finally sits next to you on the bench. “Little dude like you is stressed the fuck out over ya dreams instead of reality.” He holds out his fist. You give him a fist bump, although you still aren’t understanding why. “Gotta say cuz, that’s fucking raw.” 

For the first time in about a week, you laugh. Because it _is_ so ridiculous! Alternia is threatening danger from all angles but what keeps you up at night is your own subconscious. He smiles down at you while your laughter dies down, and then the two of you laugh together.

You sneak a glance at him. He’s beautiful, in the way that anyone laughing is beautiful. But more than that, he draws you into him. Through his meticulously disheveled look and his slight slouch, you notice small prickles of something dangerous in him. The light of his laughter only dances on the surface of his deep, dark pool, drawing your attention to whatever it might be that hides below.

So, yes. You’re curious about him. Yes, you’re attracted and maybe you have a tendency to find people who thrill you and stick to them. And when he tells you that you look stressed and invites you to his hive, you already knew your thoughts and feelings toward him were yes, yes, yes.

* * *

His hive is so ostentatious and huge that you don’t even bother to take note of it. He drives right onto the sand of his shore; you’re going to have to take your shoes off.

Should you be suspicious? You feel more at ease with this guy than you feel with most people. The only things you know about him are his name, his religious predilections, and the sound of his laugh. He knows even less about you, but he speaks to you as if you’re old friends.

He leads you right up the patch of sand that’s still wet from the shoosh and pap of the waves against the shore. He sits slowly, like a leaf falling from a tree, and beckons you down.

“I don’t even know who you are,” you say, suddenly incredulous over your bad judgment.

“Relax,” he reaches into his pocket. “Only thing you gotta know about me is I’m the man with the best beats and the biggest blunts on Alternia.” Ah, the pièce de résistance, the biggest blunt on Alternia. That thing could be classified as a lethal weapon. 

“I’ve seen bigger,” you say as he lights up. 

“If you _seen bigger_ ,” he imitates your voice, “Maybe you’d be sleeping a lil better.”

You’ve done a lot of stupid things today. You were naked in an art gallery (though thankfully you're fully dressed now). You possibly hurt Chahut’s feelings. You joined a near stranger at his hive against your better judgment. There is no way you are going to smoke that. You’re getting your life back on track, one responsible decision at a time. 

So you shake your head no at him. He doesn’t seem to mind, shrugging before he inhales the smoke on his own. In the past, you might have worried about what he was thinking, maybe obsessed over the right choice.

But not now. Now you have two very powerful words that guide you inexorably and unstoppably forward: fuck it.

It’s comfortable in the quiet with him. Each pass of the waves over the sand fills your head with static. Out where sea meets sky, the smallest rays of sunlight peek out from the crease in the horizon, highlighting the sands and the landscape all in blue. You imagine yourself floating, caught in the slight off-shade of blue between sky and sea.

Marvus puts his hand on your shoulder. 

“Yo, we still gravy baby?” Through the distracted fuzz of your brain, you register that his tone is playful.

You give him a thumbs up. Smoke filters from his mouth and nose as he considers you. 

“You know, you ain’t gotta hang out with me if the vibes all righteously fucked.” As he speaks, his face goes through a weird cycle, from a dark look of discomfort to blatantly false placidity, and then back to his harmless smile. It’s not a series of looks you know how to parse.

“It’s not that,” you say. “Your vibes are immaculate.” He beams at you, the first sincere smile he’s given you since you’ve arrived at this beach. “I just wish we could get this over with.”

“Hm? The fuck?” He nudges your shoulder with his. “Nothing doing to be ‘over with.’ A brother wanted to smoke, and a brother is smoking.”

You glance over at him. It’s not like you’re friends, you have no need to keep your distance over some sense of what’s polite.

He looks so young. Boyish, almost. The lit end of his blunt is bright as he sucks down smoke, drawing light from the hollows of his cheekbones and the sockets of his eyes. All of the planes on his face are so smooth, line-less, and his smile comes so easy to him as he exhales. Yet his eyes look so heavy, like he’s seen a thousand years in only a thousand days.

“I feel like we were fated to meet each other. That day I called you… It was supposed to be my moirail. Your number is completely different; it wasn’t just a misdial.” He scowls, almost imperceptible if honesty wasn’t so loud on his face.

“Wondered how you found me,” he says. “But real talk fam, fate ain’t shit. I say we all out here paving our own paths.”

You pass a significant glance over his sandy Gucci sweatpants, then back to his opulent hive. When you turn back to face him, you raise a brow. “You don’t strike me as the physical labor type.”

He huffs. “Aight, maybe I’m paying to have my crew pave my fucking path for me, ya dig? Means the same thing in the end.”

“If you really believe that, why did you invite me here?” Ah, here’s that sharp piece of you. It’s a relief to have it out in the open. “We aren’t friends.”

“Maybe not now,” he looks away from you, back out to the ocean. “Maybe not here. But I feel it, we was something once. Your soul is from the same wicked place mine is going.”

Is this theological theory? You really don’t want this to be theological theory.

Your thoughts screech to a halt as you notice the sun making its slow way above the horizon. You have about twenty minutes.

“Is that why I feel so out of place here? I’m just in the wrong… plane of existence?” It sounds like nonsense, but the moment you say the words something shifts into place. Maybe before, you might have fought harder for a real answer, something with science and logic. But right now, with the light of the sun glittering off the waves, you feel like the static of the world is fuzzy in all the right ways. You may not belong here, but this is where you are now.

“Maybe,” he winks at you before smiting his blunt in the sand. “Depends on your definition of wrong, cuz. I’m thinking you’re like the knock off version. Ain’t the original, but your purpose is the same. Lol, turn up babe!!” 

He turns to look out at the waves with you, before standing up with an “oh shizz lol!” 

“Ay fam let’s motor before we’re fried like the fucking fishes,” he pulls you up and pulls you close. You take a deep breath of his scent. There’s something comforting about him, familiar in a primal sense. Mostly he smells like a sweaty dude and expensive deodorant, but there’s also something deeper there. Freshly baked bread? Maybe you’re just hungry.

Something explodes in your head- _pieces of maggoty sandwich, pressed past your lips with gentle fingers_ \- and you close your eyes to rid yourself of the image. Bile rises in your throat right as you trip over the steps to his hive proper.

“Yo, bud, you aight?” You come to with Marvus standing over you, fanning you with a paper fan. You press your hands down- ah, you were lying in a beanbag chair- and stumble back down as you lose your balance to the beans. 

Marvus holds his hand out to you, and you grab onto him. He hoists you up, rearranging the beans to help support your body weight. The light presses into your eyes like iron needles. As you try to cover your eyes with your arm, Marvus presses something cool against your lips. With steady hand and gentle pace, he tips it until you feel the water against your lips. You down the glass with greedy sips all the while Marvus has his hand at the back of your head, his chest against your ear. His heart beats slower than any human’s. He wipes the water from your chin.

“You some kinda real mystery, huh?” He asks. His tone is unreadable until he laughs, joyful and excited and all around not fitting for this scene.

Everything in you wants to look over to him, to keep talking to him, to ask him what’s going on. But in the end, exhaustion takes you.

You’re pulled in and under.

* * *

Once, when you were very young, a riptide pulled you out to sea. Every instinct told you to struggle against it, but you knew to fight that instinct, to let it take you until the sea stilled. But even so, nothing in your nature is complacent. Instead of letting yourself be dragged out, farther from the shore than you could swim, you decided to swim beneath the tide. As if such a thing were possible.

It went as expected: you were pulled under and bashed against the sand. The force of the ground against your back made you gasp, forcing the water into your lungs. You learned the difference between ‘complacency’ and ‘patience’ the hard way.

So when you wake up, dragged back from peaceful wakefulness down to a restless sleep over and over again, you know better than to fight the undercurrent. There’s not much fight left in you anyway; even a tumultuous rest is better than none.

And when you wake up, Marvus is there. 

He’s sitting next to you, seemingly indifferent as he studies his face in a hand mirror. The solid weight of his body against yours is a harsh contrast to the yielding plush of the beanbag. 

When you said he was beautiful when he was laughing, it’s only because you’d never seen him like this. Focused. Serene. Turned-off like this, he’s Schrodinger’s himbo. His brush slides a thick, white paint over his face. He paints himself back to silly.

God, is he evil? You really hope he isn’t evil. You live on the cliffside and you hang out in caves. Friendship and shenanigans are all that you crave.

He catches you looking and gives you a wink. Definitely evil.

“You awake for real this time?” You nod your head. “Hells yeah.”

In a flurry of movements and explanation, Marvus explains three things to you as he pushes you through the hive. One: his camera crew is setting up in the foyer and you definitely don’t want to get in their way. A passing servant holds a tray and Marvus picks up a coffee cup and a handful of fried wasps. Gross. 

Two: he’s going to be gone for a while. Someone rushes up to him holding clipboard alongside a very stern looking tealblood. The tealblood nods to Marvus and he pauses- a stark opposition to his unending energy this evening- before signing his name and drawing a curving sign on the dotted line. 

“Where are you going?” You ask. He pulls you forward by the arm, waving good-bye to his tealblood.

“Wrong question,” he dodges a team of bluebloods who rush towards him with an earpiece, hustling you through the hallways. “Heading about five sweeps in the past. Doing a throwback tour before heading out to Rolling Loud. New albums are always hella hectic man, I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t sound sorry, unless he’s sorry to be delighted.

Three: Marvus is not a small-time, SoundCloud rapper. 

He alternately gives orders to people and sidesteps others. It’s clearly a routine he’s practiced and perfected over the sweeps; it’s like watching ballet in the studio. You can almost visualize the tape on the floor, signaling his footwork.

He passes you to a stout woman in a smart waistcoat and tails before ruffling your hair and saying his goodbyes. She leads you through the garage where a limo is waiting.

“Where to?” Her tone is a perfect polish to her careful words, mirror-smooth and placid. 

“Uh, can I… Just hold on one second…” You trail off as you search your pockets for your palm husk. Twenty-three percent battery. Could be worse.

Now that you think about it, it’s pretty early. Peeking through the crack under the garage door, you can just barely see the last rays of sunlight.

Fuck, are any of your friends likely to be awake? Tyzias just posted a chit that implied she’s at Stelsa’s, Nihkee might be a little too intense for you right now.

No, the answer should have come to you much more quickly than this. Cyclical thinking leads to cyclical behavior. It’s so obvious.

The dial tone sounds louder now that you’re in the relative eye of the storm. 

“Hey. Want to meet me at that teahouse that Tegiri likes?”

Your driver has the address already pulled up by the time you step inside. She passes a bottle of water to you (branded with a looping purple sign and Marvus’s face paint design, that’s really bizarre) along with two ibuprofen. 

The smile on your face has nothing to do with convenience. 

* * *

“You’re an adrenaline junkie.”

Of all of the words you’d expected Polypa to call you- suicidal was your first pick, stupid was your second- ‘adrenaline junkie’ didn’t even register on your radar.

For a moment, you chew on that, tearing it to bite-sized pieces and hoping to make it easier to swallow. You glance over at Polypa. 

The harsh lighting of a public square draws out every sharp angle of her: the jut of her teeth, poking out from under her lips as she suppresses her smile from ‘loving’ to ‘knowing.’ The hard corners of her shoulders. But her eyes when she glances over to you are soft, impossibly soft.

As far as your chewing is going, you spit it out once a pair of rushing highbloods knock it out of you.

“Are you more upset that it was stupid or that it was a highblood?” Sheepish is too light a word for the sound of your voice; if a sheep is what you are, then Polypa has you thoroughly fleeced. Just like always. But instead of money, she’s taking information you aren’t ready to give. Do trolls dream of sleep-deprived sheep? This metaphor is getting away from you.

She doesn’t answer right away, crossing her arms as she turns to watch a pair of midbloods speak over each other, forcing word after anxious word through the receiver of an unresponding palm husk. You wince; dare you say, mood?

“I already knew that you have no idea what’s going on. Ever. All the time.” She smirks as she gives you the side-eye. “And I don’t care that you went on a date with some highblood.”

A sharp prickle of tension runs along your shoulders. Is this what people mean when they say you bristle?

“Who said it was a date?” you mumble. She’s not convinced, throwing a sharp look your way.

“He took you to his hive. He shared his drugs with you.” She states these things like there’s some obvious subtext you’re missing. You shrug as if to say yeah, you’re very savvy about highblooded habits and also the doing drugs thing. She said it best herself: you have no idea what is going on, ever, all the time. 

“Anyway,” she pauses to glare at a troll rushing past you with what appears to be a fire extinguisher? This is honestly the weirdest date you’ve ever been on, what's with the vibe? “I’m only mad because you’re _dating_ a guy with a higher kill count than me.” The emphasis on ‘dating’ swoops low in your gut. That’s a problem for future you; denial is serving you well right now.

What? Sensing your confusion, Polypa pulls up a website on her palmhusk. You recognize a number of celebrities- Nihkee Moolah, for one, and Troll Kanye West- all with a number below a description of their career. At the very top of the page is Marvus Xoloto, with a number so high you don’t even want to count the zeros to give name to it. These numbers are kill counts?

“Accidents are just a part of the job,” Polypa soothes. You must be visibly pale because her hand is firm on your cheek as she continues. “Mob mentality has the highest kill count out of all of us.”

In a rush, you release your tension with your breath. Bad enough to be evil, but to be evil on purpose? Marvus holds your curiosity even when he’s not around.

Polypa punches you in the arm, stopping your thoughts. “He’s good looking,” she says. “For a highblood.” The two of you admire his picture for a moment: the lights behind him shadow his face in blue. He looks mysterious and familiar all at once. Like he’s sharing a private joke with you. The number below his portrait makes the whole thing foreboding. 

Well, denial has been serving you well so far. You decide to trust Polypa’s judgment for now.

“How is the most sought after person on Alternia such a weird-looking, hornless idiot?” Her soft voice is almost drowned out by the screaming trolls running past you in the opposite direction. 

“Rich dudes always like new shiny things,” you say. You’re stopped in front of a fountain by a team of emergency response drones. A sea dweller lays dead, her mouth open as water from the fountain spills down her throat. She gurgles her grotesque death rattle like a parody of drowning. You’re feeling a little numb to all of this death stuff. Polypa attempts a feeble argument with the drones, wrapping her arm around you protectively.

Maybe you are an adrenaline junkie; you do have a certain predilection for attaching yourself to the more dangerous trolls in your social circle.

Either way, you wish Polypa would let you know when she was on the clock.

* * *

Your palm husk is a reassuring pressure against the bottom of your chin. 

It’s not that your date with Polypa didn’t help ground you; quite the opposite, she almost helped too much. Dealing with feelings you didn’t know how to name, seeking abstract solutions to problems that you couldn’t grab a hold of? Well, that’s just what you do. But knowing that the issue is as simple as ‘feeling out of place and out of time?’ You can’t do shit with that.

_Can I see you today?_

You hit send before you can obsess any further about your tone, make a joke, or whatever your brain decides to snag on. A deep breath is all you can do to calm your racing nerves. She taught you this: your heart beating in time with what surrounds you. Birds chirp. Wind rustles through leaves and hair and grass. The moons shine down against your skin.

And here in the middle of a grassy valley beneath your hive, your blood flows through your veins and you are alive, around, and irreconcilable.

Your palm husk buzzes and you almost drop it.

Marvus  
  
**Marvus:** ayyy babe wuts poppin :oP   
  


Not who you were expecting, but you suspect this is a blessing in disguise. Besides Boldir, Marvus is the only troll you can speak to with no need for pretense.

Marvus  
  
**MSPAR:** Trying to stay out of trouble.  
  
**Marvus:** damn that ain’t no fun :o(  
  
**MSPAR:** How’s life on tour?  
  


He’s quiet for a few minutes. Boldir still hasn’t texted you back.

Damn it, you’re bored.

Marvus  
  
**Marvus:** its all gravy baby  
  


That doesn’t mean anything to you.

Marvus  
  
**MSPAR:** I have no idea what your music sounds like.  
  
**MSPAR:** Freestyle for me?  
  
**Marvus:** word ! LOL  
  
**Marvus:** wuts the subject ?  
  
**MSPAR:** My bad mood  
  
**Marvus:** aw :’o(  
  
**Marvus:** can’t do shizz with that tho  
  
**Marvus:** unless u give me the deets :o)  
  


Is it weird that you find him charming? You sit on that, deciding on the details he needs to know. Your phone buzzes again.

Boldir  
  
**Boldir:** (i’m sending you rendezvous coordinates)  
  


Word for word the same message she sends every time. Goregle maps opens on its own accord and sets a waypoint to a nearby cafe.

It’s easy enough to send them both, as Marvus so eloquently put it, the deets on your bad mood.

Marvus  
  
**Marvus:** dan fam sounds ruff  
  
**Marvus:** a lil too heavy for a freestyle tho  
  
**Marvus:** could give u a lil more trouble tho if u want pics ;oP  
  


The omniscuttle bus arrives right when you suspect Marvus is about to get really annoying. It figures he’s a fuckboy. You’ve seen and heard it all. You turn off notifications and switch to your messages from Boldir.

Boldir  
  
**Boldir:** (you always seek me out when you’re looking for trouble)  
  


Sounds familiar.

Boldir  
  
**MSPAR:** According to my moirail, seeking people out for trouble is all I do.  
  


Boldir doesn’t text you back. The omniscuttlebus smells like cheese and hardboiled eggs. Two trolls toward the front are making out at seventy fucking decibels. A troll makes panicked breaths behind you. Of course you switch back to see what Marvus is saying.

Nothing.

After your talk about fate (or lack thereof), you’re sensing that maybe it’s your turn to. Ugh. Take the first step.

You hate this part.

Marvus  
  
**MSPAR:** Listen, I’m not trying to leave you on read.  
  
**MSPAR:** I understand that you’re busy so you don’t have to worry about texting back.  
  
**MSPAR:** But please cut that shit out.  
  
**Marvus:** i ain’t worried boo  
  


Boldir  
  
**Boldir:** (try to stay inconspicuous)  
  
**Boldir:** (or as inconspicuous as an alien can be)  
  
**MSPAR:** Right.  
  
**MSPAR:** So do you still take your coffee lukewarm, 2 sugars, white as lusus fur?  
  
**Boldir:** (you have a terrible memory)  
  
**Boldir:** (no wonder you make such a piss poor pickpocket)  
  


You grin. Boldir’s texts confirm that she remembers Ardata’s coffee order and that your mark tonight has a similar temperament.

Marvus  
  
**Marvus:** wassup w u 2nite?  
  
**Marvus:** in and out like a MFin ninja with the heavy-hitting  
  
**MSPAR:** What?  
  
**Marvus:** i be knowing what it looks like 2 keep ppl wanting more  
  
**MSPAR:** Then you better _be knowing_ that’s a you problem.  
  
**Marvus:** oh shizz LOL !!  
  


Boldir meets you at the same coffee shop she always meets you. A sense of feeling small wraps around you as the sounds of the crowd dim around you. A vial of poison- Ardata, and her heavy ass haul from the local stores- Boldir, smoke blowing from her nose and eyes and ears-

No. You close your eyes. Those things never happened. Just echos from your nightmares.

Marvus, blowing smoke from his nose, impossibly boyish in the face of the rising sun. He turns to you with the weight of a thousand years in his eyes. Peace.

Well, damn, maybe Marvus is particularly good at being an intrusive fuckboy. You can’t get him out of your head.

You really like him. Hell, the thought is so pleasant you say it again. _You really like him._

Still pleasant.

Marvus  
  
**MSPAR:** I really like you.  
  


Wow.

Boldir wastes no time in getting you to work. She hunches, fingers white at the knuckle, at a nearby table and fiddles with her phone, apparently absorbed in some petty flamewar or other. It’s so convincing that you have to force yourself to look away. Focus.

What you know: your mark is a mid- to highblood. They’re snooty and self-absorbed, probably about your height. In theory, this should only rate a medium difficulty.

If only you knew what you were stealing. You glance back at Boldir. She’s really glowering at her palmhusk now, typing away with a speed and strength so ferocious that you can hear the clicking of her nails against the screen from where you’re standing.

Time is ticking. You’ve found your mark: a tealblood with a cerulean girlfriend, placing her cups behind her as she counts change. She glances back at you, giving your appearance a slimy once over, before scooting closer to her girlfriend.

But what are you stealing? She’s carrying, from what you can infer, some designer shoes, a case of horribly expensive calligraphy pens, and a diary (complete with lock). The former two are immaterial to you, and the latter too sentimental.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. It’s the perfect premise. On instinct, your body moves forward. You feign interest in your incoming text message- from Marvus, which gives you a thrill of anxiety, why did you text him that you liked him as if you were a giggling school kid?- as you step forward to the counter.

And you think: this is what Boldir was trying to teach you this whole time. Learning to trust in your own instincts, to give yourself over to the flow of time and space around you. This is all you can do in this moment.

Marvus  
  
**Marvus:** dam u just gonna come rite out n say it LOL  
  
**Marvus:** dats brave af cuz  
  
**Marvus:** respek  
  


Iced tea. That’s what you came here to steal? In your professional opinion, that’s a pretty lame resolution to your revelation. You were hoping for something with a little more symbolism or something.

But Boldir is all but glowing at you. It’s fine.

“You’re so much lighter than when I first met you,” she leads you out of the cafe and back onto the sidewalk. It’s second nature for her to blend into the crowd. Unfortunately for you, it’s second nature for you to bumble your way through a crowd and knock into nearly everyone. Somehow, she keeps pace. “Have you finally figured it out? Your man on the moon?”

Boldir is someone who is so shrouded in mystery. In some ways, you’re so similar to her, and yet you suspect that your ‘man on the moon’ is more of a ‘dude behind a laptop.’ Not so romantic, but a little more true to yourself.

She doesn’t wait for your answer- maybe it was a rhetorical question, then- before she disappears back into the crowd. You guess training’s over.

Marvus  
  
**MSPAR:** So?  
  
**Marvus:** :o?  
  
**MSPAR:** Do you like me back?  
  
**Marvus:** hehe ur committed to the act, huh ?  
  
**MSPAR:** Let’s be real: your life is way too good without me.  
  
**Marvus:** aight word  
  
**Marvus:** real talk ?  
  
**Marvus:** tbh its comforting 2 talk 2 someone who doesnt no my whole fxxkin life story  
  
**Marvus:** intimate with the wicked details  
  
**Marvus:** ya heard ?  
  
**MSPAR:** Yeah.  
  
**MSPAR:** It’s funny, I would say the opposite!  
  
**MSPAR:** For once, I feel like I’m talking to someone who does know me.  
  
**Marvus:** turn tf up for friendship !!  
  
**MSPAR:** Can I get a whoop whoop!!  
  
**Marvus:** hell yeah !!  
  


The omniscuttlebus drops you off close to your hive. For the first time since you’ve landed here, you’re looking forward to some espresso from your espresso machine and for a snuggle in the blanket pile you made with Tyzias.

It feels good to be home.

* * *

These days, it takes a good, honest effort to get comfortable. With a quick run of a rag over your countertop, a fluff of your pile, and an argument with your espresso machine (looks like you’re having tea tonight), comfort settles in around you like a fog.

For all the drama they bring into your life, it’s good to be surrounded by the echos of your friends. On your fridge, you’ve taped pictures from Karako and Wanshi. On your counter is an assortment of pottery that you and Skylla made together, as well as a single, recycled plastic cup, courtesy of Charun. Skylla’s calendar hangs from a splinter in some wood. Hidden in the rafters and in the air is a clean, floral scent that Tagora managed to force into your hive by sheer force of will.

For all that you might be alone, you never feel lonely when you’re in your tower. Tea steeped, you gather your fluffiest blanket and sit out on your balcony.

Polypa  
  
**MSPAR:** You were right.  
  


The tea is sweet and astringent against your tongue. The moons are shy tonight, light peeking out from behind the shy shadows of a crescent. You’re on top of the world.

Making a new friend has never felt quite like this.

Polypa  
  
**MSPAR:** I had this whole epiphany. It was ridiculous.  
  
**MSPAR:** I had to tell myself twice that I liked him. Just because it felt good.  
  
**Polypa:** So * why are you texting me? *|  
  
**MSPAR:** What, I need an excuse to text my moirail now?  
  
**Polypa:** You only text me this early in the morning * when you can’t sleep. *|  
  
**Polypa:** It’s my job to notice things about people * especially their habits * and their schedules. *|  
  
**MSPAR:** You really know how to make me feel special.  
  
**MSPAR:** Can I be honest with you?  
  
**Polypa:** Only if you tell me * I’m right again. *|  
  
**MSPAR:** I think I’m flushed for him.  
  
**Polypa:** Close enough. *|  
  
**Polypa:** Usually * trolls are excited to pursue a new quadrant. *|  
  
**Polypa:** What’s bothering you? *|  
  
**MSPAR:** Well...  
  
**MSPAR:** How do trolls usually divide their time between four quadrants and their friend groups?  
  
**MSPAR:** I’m overwhelmed.  
  
**Polypa:** You do * have particularly * needy friends. *|  
  


Increased shurikens, usually a sign of insecurity. You have to be careful with your words here.

Ugh, relationship stuff really isn’t your thing.

Polypa  
  
**Polypa:** It’s a constant * dialogue. *|  
  
**Polypa:** You and * your quadrants * need to keep communication up. *|  
  


Oh. Not insecurity: excitement. It’s easy to forget that a cold-blooded mercenary has such a soft spot for romance.

Polypa  
  
**MSPAR:** How do I know that I’m perceiving this right?  
  
**MSPAR:** I mean, my first date with you could have been seen as a flushed thing for humans.  
  
**MSPAR:** What if he’s just, I don’t know, trying to get his bucket filled or whatever.  
  
**Polypa:** Vulgarity aside * I just told you. *|  
  
**Polypa:** You have to * talk * to him. *|  
  
**MSPAR:** Ugh.  
  
**MSPAR:** Do I have to?  
  
**Polypa:** Yes *|  
  


Polypa texts you well past your bedtime. You learn three things from her: one, most trolls view flushed and ashen as more similar than flushed and pale, which is why she seems so unbothered by your confusion. Two, most trolls have way fewer friends to juggle than the average human. Three, you’re acting like an idiot and you really do just need to talk to him.

Your eyes are heavy, burning with the need to sleep, but you open up goregle one last time, not ready to face the frustration of insomnia quite yet. Marvus had said that he was going on a throwback tour before Rolling Loud. After a quick check of the date and some scrutiny of a time-table on the garish hot pink of Marvus’s official website, you figure out that Marvus is roughly on the other side of the continent.

And the sun is just setting. Mental math: he was texting you at about three hours from now. Which is way too late, in your opinion.

You smile as you pull up your texts.

Polypa  
  
**MSPAR:** It’s going to be a steep learning curve.  
  
**MSPAR:** But I think I’m getting it.  
  


* * *

You wake up as the sun is setting. Everything is awash in tones of rose gold.

For one strange moment, you forget where you are.  _ Who  _ you are. Your life has taken on the insubstantial familiarity of a dream as your consciousness floats up to meet the dust motes floating among the rafters. The patchwork wood paneling on the outside of your house hisses as the heat of the sun draws steam from deep within. 

It comes back to you slowly. You make some toast, haunted and exhausted by life as an Alternian resident. You check your chittr and Zebruh’s name is the first you see. Now you are haunted and exhausted as someone with the misfortune of being on Zebruh’s friend list.

Those twenty seconds, in that place between dreaming and wakefulness, is the only time you can wear your fear like a mantle around you and choose to shrug it. For those twenty seconds, you were just someone else, someone outside, and your whole life before and after were like stories of...

Your toast scares the shit out of you as it pops out of the toaster with a gutsy honk. Leave it to clowns to bring you back to reality. It’s not like that metaphor was going anywhere.

You open chittr back up to see who’s ass Zebruh is kissing tonight.

Attached image: Zebruh, holding two hot pink tickets, Marvus’s signature face paint design artfully displayed. If humble bragging was an art, Zebruh’s the next fucking Monet. 

Creepy, both his actions and the startling realization that you’re in feelings with the same man. But he’s a creep with more of a plan than you, and desperate times call for desperate measures.

But how to approach him? Is he self-aware enough to understand not every DM is a booty call? It’s six in the fucking morning, you do not have the emotional capacity to deal with a dick sending you a dick pic.

Lucky for you- or unlucky, depending on how this plays out- he’s decided to message you first.

You wonder how he’s typing so fast with his bulge in his hand. But now isn’t the time to get cold feet. This is a delicate situation requiring all of your subtlety.

Ugh. You’re really going to have to kiss this dude’s ass for your plan to work.

You’ve never seen something go over someone’s head quite so high. Your point may as well just entered the fucking stratosphere. You rewrite the summary from his most recent hatreon post. All of those English classes weren’t for nothing after all.

Honestly, you’re just thankful he isn’t flirting with you.

Wow. You can’t believe you suffered through chittr’s light mode for this.

Damn it.

* * *

You don’t know how you got here.

Counterpoint: you know exactly how you got here, but you don’t want to think about it right now. Cirava blows another plume of smoke above your face. You reach your hand out and swirl the smoke around your fingers. 

It only took one hit from their rig before you were comfortable enough to sprawl out on their floor. They run their hand through your hair, eye flicking back and forth between their live stream and the patterns you’re drawing in the smoke. They blow the smoke away and help you sit up.

“Hey,” they start. It hits you that you didn’t smoke with Marvus. Great, now he’s on your mind. Cirava says something. You weren’t listening.

“Are you listening?” They do that thing where they cross their arms and look frustrated, even though they’re feeling vulnerable. Trolls are so easy to read.

“No,” you tell them, then you start laughing.  _ Marvus _ . What would it be like to be high with him? You really want to see him.

“Well start. Here’s what I have so far,” they hit the space bar and some music starts playing. Oh, that’s right, they were looking for someone to help them with their music or something. Kind of weird how all of your friends are looking for inspiration right now. 

You shake your head and focus.

They took some dialogue from a movie, overlayed it over a simple piano chord, and played the same beat that all lo-fi songs use. It’s going to be a hit. You can already envision the title: She Left Me Alone at the Omniscuttlebus Station at Three AM, something like that.

“All lo-fi beats sound the same,” you tell them. After this morning, your propensity for bullshit is wearing thin.

They raise their hand, one finger held up. “It’s not about the beat...” they say, slowing the song down by about fifteen percent, “...but what’s beneath the beat.”

The woman’s voice from the dialogue sample slows down to a mournful baritone. The other voice is so deep and slow that you can barely make it out.

The two of you dissolve into giggles.

“Lmao, my vibe is so harshed right now. Maybe I’m getting burnt out,” they take a sip from their troll Arizona iced tea can before they wipe their hair out of their eyes, move their eyepatch around, scratch at their socket. Burnt out is exactly the word you’d use.

“I’m happy to hang out, but I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be,” your thoughts wander back to Marvus. What does his music sound like? Everything you’ve seen online implies that he’s pretty big, from the various gifs you saw of him attached to discourse posts on chittr to the calendar filled to the brim with suggestive photos of him. “Maybe you could use inspiration from another musician.”

“Nuh-uh, no way. I’m not going through The Incident again.” You’re still unclear on what exactly The Incident is. “I work better alone.”

“Why’d you invite me over then?”

They stare at you for a minute before they go back to their music. Cirava isn’t someone who’s great at trust, and that’s okay! But you’re still going to give them shit for it.

Before you can form the words, they speak again. “What, do you know another musician?”

“Yeah,” you say like a lovestruck idiot. You’re blaming the hours of listening to lo-fi beats on this one. Anyone would get nostalgic and deep in their feelings.

“Damn, wish I recorded that lol,” their casual tone is betrayed by their insistent lean forward. They’re like a hound with the scent of blood. Who knew that Cirava was such a gossip?

“I’ve been spending some time with...” how to describe Marvus? Well, rule one of gossip is knowing your audience. “...With this dude who’s performing at Rolling Loud.” 

“Lol no way,” they type furiously on their husktop before turning it around to show you the official Rolling Loud website. “You mean this Rolling Loud?” Their lo-fi beat is still playing behind the obnoxious rapping coming from the website.

“Yeah,” you say. You take a sip from your own iced tea as they stare you down.

“Lol, that’s wild. I was invited as an influencer, but it’s kinda tough to do alone,” they toss you their rig and you take the tiniest puff. “Wasn’t gonna go, but…”

The implication is enough. This really is wild.

You pass them their rig back. It chitters as they take a deep pull. 

“This is so weird. I spent all morning trying to scam this dude for tickets but you just happened to be invited? It feels like…” You can’t say it, you’re feeling nauseous.

“Fate?” They supply between coughs. “Yeah, man. I try not to think about that stuff.” They glance up at an empty picture frame.

Maybe, just this once, you can follow their lead. You push back your anxiety about fate and the future and you watch the smoke filter out of their mouth.

They smile when you lean back and trace patterns in the smoke again.

* * *

Your time at Rolling Loud starts with a list of tasks and a map. If you’d known you were going to be so busy, you would have worn your busy-body boots.

Who knew being an influencer was such hard work?

“Yeah, man, it’s a delicate balance. Gotta keep track of a whole web of people lmao.” Cirava explains. “Can’t spend too much time around one crowd without majorly upsetting another. It’s all good, though, I know how to keep my distance.”

Most of the stops on their list are tame by your standards. Alternia’s largest helium balloon. Maypole grounds dark with old blood. So many merchants selling the same overpriced crap that you don’t bother to make note of them, excluding the mandatory selfies with Cirava. 

At last, though, you’re nearing the end of your errands and rapidly approaching the start of your fun. Cirava lets you sit back on a bench while they go scout for food. If the last two hours are anything to go by, you can expect food that looks flashy but tastes bland. 

It’s fine though.

There’s something about being stationary in a sea of writhing people that’s always suited you. And where on Alternia are you going to find people better suited for people watching? Here it’s all loud colors and laughter. 

You lean back on your hands, finally exhaling. It occurs to you exactly why Cirava didn’t want to do this alone: you’re exhausted, and you haven’t even heard the music yet. For all that, though, the moons are the same shades of pink and green above you and- pausing to take your shoes off- the grass beneath your feet is soft and cool. 

You’re in the middle of tracing the wood grain with your finger when Cirava joins you again. That was fast; you get this feeling like something significant was supposed to happen, but your own personal narrative got sidetracked. When you lift your finger from the wood, you notice you stopped right before a split in the grain.

Kind of a heavy-handed metaphor in your opinion.

“Help me out with this,” with a grunt, Cirava passes a mountain of food your way. With a bit of hemming, hawing, and negotiating that would put a legislacerator to shame, Cirava and you manage to spread the feast between your combined laps. “Sweet haul this time, lol.”

You have to hand it to them: they know what they’re doing, and it shows. All of the bland tans and olives of troll carnival food are interspersed with bright bits of candy, candied fruit, seasoned and stuffed bugs, and sausages. It takes some work for Cirava to position themself over the food, and then even more for them to come up with the right caption. After about fifteen selfies, your stomach is rumbling.

But once they’ve perfected their image for social media, Cirava scoops all of the food onto one plate and heads for a nearby incinerator.

“Wait!” You stand in a hurry, stopping them with a hand to their arm. 

“You didn’t think I’d actually eat this stuff did you? Lol, you can be kinda naive, you know.” They do stop, though. “Come on, there’s lowblood vendors outside.”

“What’s wrong with the food?” You take a sniff. For all you can tell, it’s just normal carnie food. If carnies were bloodthirsty insectivores. “Unless…” You raise a brow at them, challenging. They don’t budge, but neither are they swayed by your challenge. 

There’s nothing for it. You pick off a piece of fried food- smells like a corn dog, but it’s green- and shove it into your mouth. Cirava flinches forward, face breaking into shock for one moment, but you continue to chew with all of the defiance you can muster.

Please don’t be mealy, you beg whatever’s listening. Please don’t be maggots.

It’s… well, it’s carnival food. Thank fuck.

“It’s good,” you’re blatantly lying through your teeth, but they take the bait anyway.

And so it goes. They try something new, you’re ecstatic, but you don’t make a big deal out of it. As you walk through this space between reality and the stage together, you realize for the first time how high-strung your mellow friend is.

“It must be hard to be so focused on appearances,” you start. Your words sound so dreamy to your own ears. Your phone feels so heavy in your pocket.

Cirava starts in on their usual speech whenever they think you’re criticizing them. Yeah, yeah, it motivates them to always improve themself. You’ve heard it before. And, quite frankly, your thoughts are on someone else.

All your time training with Boldir wasn’t for nothing. It’s easy to take a casual glance at your phone screen. No notifs, but of course, you’d turned those off before arriving. The last thing you want to do is obsess over your notifications.

You open your conversation with Marvus up anyway. The colors are familiar- you’ve been pretending not to sneak glances at this every twenty minutes or so. Your “Hey,” followed by the read receipt punches low in your gut. 

You don’t get time to ruminate on this any further. Cirava grabs your arm and pulls you to the next stop.

The concert has only just begun.

* * *

Cirava makes it difficult to enjoy the concert. 

The crowd pushes and pulls you in a million different directions, but Cirava pulls you in one more. It’s selfie after selfie, a video to break up the monotony, and then selfies galore again. 

Your own sardonic smirk looks back at you when Cirava shows you the latest selfie, asking for your opinion. A rapper named Jester Bester raps obscenely in the background. You wonder if you would have had more fun had you come here with Zebruh. At least you wouldn’t have to worry about being torn apart by the crowd.

Marvus comes on stage. Cirava takes a picture of the three of you and uploads it immediately. You’re too exhausted by the psychic and physical agony of the crowd to come up with some good prose about how good it feels to see him. The crowd helpfully stands in as a macrocosm of your feelings:

“Marvus I’m in love with you!” Perhaps a little on the nose, and way too intense to boot, but close enough.

“Please show toes!” Um.

“Dark horrors, I just want to run my fingers through his hair.” Your fingers twitch at the thought.

“He’s sooo beautiful!” The tone is a little dreamier than you’d ever admit to using, but it’s undeniably succinct.

Cirava disrupts your listening by showing off the selfie they took. They, with their arm around you and smiling with the heat of an easy bake oven. You, grimacing and clearly exhausted. And Marvus, centered perfectly, singing in profile.

If anything, you have to admire Cirava’s dedication to their craft. 

They say something to you, shoulders hunched just enough to give away their discomfort.

“WHAT!” you shout over the crowd. They lean in.

“How close are you with this guy exactly!” They yell. Marvus stops singing; you’re close enough to the stage that you can just make out the barest tones of his pleased laughter.

“I don’t know,” you repeat this when Cirava leans in again. “Close enough.” Not close enough, but they don’t need to know that.

“I was thinking-” the music changes and the crowd goes absolutely apeshit. “Maybe we could get a better picture with this guy!”

“I really don’t like to use my friendships like that!” This is a really bizarre conversation to be having at close to ninety decibels. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not like you haven’t used your friendships for worse!” Even through their shouting, they sound testy. That stings; you think back to your plan with Zebruh this morning.

Still, you look up to the stage. Marvus has stopped singing for a moment. He takes hearty chugs from a water bottle before wiping the sweat off of his neck. For a moment, you could swear he catches your eye. But the moment passes, and he goes back to singing, leaning forward into a crowd of outstretched palm husks, all recording. He’s center stage, framed and picture-perfect.

“It’s different with him,” you say, so quietly that there’s no way anyone can hear you over the din of the music and the mania of the crowd.

Your face must give it away, because Cirava responds, “I’m sure they all feel that way.” They jerk their horns to the crowd. Marvus accepts a big floppy hat from one of his fans and holds it tight to his head as he dances, laughing into his microphone. Blood is starting to seep into your shoes.

You knew you should have worn your busy-body boots.

Cirava’s hand is tight on your shoulder as they suddenly lean close to you. “Be careful,” they say, abandoning their chill persona. “This is how we get burned.”

The crowd cheers as one of Marvus’s songs transitions to another, with an “Oh shizz, y’all really fucksin with this shizz!” You wonder why he can’t say ‘fuck’ like a normal person.

“It’s different,” you say, turning to face them. “With him.”

* * *

With the concert finally winding down, you and Cirava can focus on the last task on their list: finding a lyft that’s not hundreds of caegars.

Correction: Cirava can focus on that task. You’re currently preoccupied with the fact that a huge blueblood is heading straight towards you. He’s wearing a suit to a concert. What an asshole.

“Think you could do a twenty-minute walk?” Cirava asks, oblivious.

“Uh, yeah,” Big Blue makes eye contact, bringing their hand up. At a loss, you wave at them. Cirava looks up and stills. Now everyone is out of their element. His hand comes down on your shoulder. Your whole body shudders. Cirava’s husk dings as the lyft driver accepts their request. 

Now that he’s up close, Big Blue is pretty obviously security. Oh fuck, what did you do this time? They jerk their head back. 

“Let’s make our way back to the big top, freakshow,” now here’s a man who’s obviously uncomfortable using circus lingo. Cirava smiles at this and waves goodbye. And now you’re back to being the only one out of the loop.

Oh, fuck it. With the determination that only the very devout or the very foolish wear, you walk back towards a bloody field of corpses.

You only hope that one of your friends can hook you up with some new shoes.

* * *

You’d expected this big build up.

You know, the kind where you catch glimpses of him and are denied any real conversation with him until the end? Or some dramatic scene where Big Blue takes you through room after foreboding room until you get to Marvus, and it’s played out as some big joke.

In the end, though, Big Blue leads you into a green room and Marvus is just sitting front and center on the couch. Your shoes stick slightly to the floor- okay you are  _ definitely _ cashing in a favor as soon as you’re done with this- as you shift from foot to foot, kicking empty bottles of faygo out of your space.

He doesn’t immediately take note of you, so you take note of him.

Sweat still shines on his skin and his hair is frizzy and curling from the humidity of the concert grounds. You get a very strong scent memory of something stinky and musky.  _ Wet teriyaki socks... _ You really don’t want to dwell on that. Gone is the persona he wore on stage. Though he’s still ostentatious- and, well the best word for him at all times is ‘loud,’ in every sense- he’s toned down here.

He brings a sandwich up to his mouth as his eyes flit and flick over his phone screen. His foot, resting on top of the other on a table in front of him, taps in the air to a melody only he can hear. Clowns sort of half speak to him and he grunts and laughs here and there. 

You really missed him.

In the span of five seconds, three things happen. First, he notices you, eye brows shooting up to his hairline as he smiles with his mouth full, cheeks bulging slightly. Second, you smile, relieved that you aren’t bothering him but also certain that he’s the reason you’re here. Third, he says the last thing you wanted to hear.

“Ayy my number one fan!”

Every clown in the green room turns to look at you.

Fuck, did he think you were only here with Cirava for the clout? Did he even recognize Cirava? Marvus turns his palm husk screen towards you, confirming your worst fears.

Cirava stands with their back to the stage and their arm around your shoulders. You’re angled away just enough to look back at the stage, directly into Marvus’s eyes. He stares back, the spotlight highlighting the significant look you’re sharing. And he’s singing directly into the mic. To you. 

It’s like a trashy romance novel. A thousand words of throbbing, purple prose shoved in one picture.

Marvus takes a good look at your expression before bursting into startled laughter. The clowns turn back to what they were doing.

“Shizz man, I’m just playing. For real though, ain’t never seen nobody look so scared to be my one a my fans LOL! You a real one, buddy,” he continues to laugh, popping the last bite of his sandwich into his maw.

“You had me worried,” you take a second to relax your jaw and shoulders. Marvus pats the seat next to him and you sit for the first time in six hours. “If that’s all it takes to be your number one fan, I couldn’t figure out what all of those trolls out there qualified as.”

It’s a little awkward, smushed up against him in view of thirty other dudes. And he is sweaty and stinky, as you suspected, but you’re not about to make a big fucking deal about it or anything. But when Marvus hands you a sandwich, you eat in silence next to him while he fucks around on his palm husk, and the silence is suspiciously fucking serene.

Peace descends upon you like… well, like it currently is. There’s something between you and Marvus, like you’re both actors who have already recited the script and know all the lines and are comfortable going without. If you’re going to go off script, you want your line to be a good one. But what to say?

Marvus breaks the silence first.

“Ay cuz let’s bounce!” He stands up, stretching his neck and shoulders before handing his hand out to you and pulling you bodily off the couch.

“Wha- where are we going?”

He leads you through the tents; you’ve lost your bearings a bit.

“I’ma be honest fam, I’m not really sure where to go from here lol,” he doesn’t sound unsure. “And I’m sleepy as fuck! Let’s freshen things up a lil, keep us on our toes.”

Oh god.

“Been wanting to show you something I ain’t shown nobody before,” he gives you a sly look over his shoulder.

Oh fuck. Is he going to sleep with you? You resign yourself to crafting another romance novel analogy before you realize that he’s probably shown his bulge or whatever to multiple people.

Should you feel resigned? You don’t really have strong feeling about this dudes genitalia.

Your bearing come crashing back to you as the gnit and grit of backstage gives way to the polished waxed wood of the stage.

Double fuck, suddenly you are having very strong feelings about this dude’s genitalia. Between fucking or dying, the choice is obvious.

“Stage fright?” Marvus calls behind him. He looks good on stage; his movements are controlled and graceful. It occurs to you that this guy is a professional dancer. You take a step on stage right as Marvus walks all the way to the front. In one graceful movement, he sits, legs swinging off stage and cane sword sheathed on his lap. 

There’s nothing for it- you join him. For one long moment, the two of you stare out across a sea of the dead and dying. You wonder what you’re going to have to pay to cross this River Styx.

Between you and Marvus, too, is another river. Moments you never lived haunt you even as he decides you never have to live them again. You wonder if you’ve died, here, before. You wonder what you woke up from, right at the beginning.

A sharp snap of plastic breaking brings you back to reality. Marvus takes slow sips from a bottle of faygo. In any other story, maybe someone would have said he looks haunted, or pensive, or blank. But here, though he looks tired, he’s conspicuously alive and present.

He turns to you. His eyes are so honest, downturned and sympathetic. He smirks, and you smile helplessly back. 

“So, you wanna fuck or nah?”

God, what? You thought you were done with this!

“What?”

“I mean, that’s what always comes next. Not gonna lie, you’re fine as fuck, I’m still worked up from my show,” he stops once he sees you visably freaking out. “Or, uh, not lol!”

He makes a smile at you that’s so pained you can’t help but laugh.

“Listen like, that was my bad,” he runs his hand through his hair, working through some tangles. “I’m still learning my fuckin’ lines. This wicked shizz we got between us, it’s all new to me, you feel?”

You lean in and kiss him. It’s exactly what you need; there are no sparks, no fireworks. Just your lips pressed to his, his breath on your cheek, and his hair tickling your forehead.

It’s exactly as real as you need it to be.

You finally have a good line for him, and this is where your romance novel analogy would really come in handy but you know what? Fuck it.

“I doubt that script has been written yet.” Take that one to the bank, boys.

He’s completely bewildered. So you kiss him again, this time on the cheek.

He presses his hand to the spot where you kissed him, his expression unchanged.

And he takes another sip of his faygo.

**Author's Note:**

> “On soft Spring nights I'll stand in the yard under the stars  
> Something good will come out of all things yet  
> And it will be golden and eternal just like that  
> There's no need to say another word.”  
> ― Jack Kerouac, Big Sur


End file.
